


a remedy for batch of broken souls

by driedupwishes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, F/M, M/M, Movie Night, Multi, Post-Season/Series 03A, Sleepovers, teenagers being teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedupwishes/pseuds/driedupwishes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post season3A AU] No one comes out of the Nemeton Right. Erica sits next to Stiles in Chemistry like a corpse while Boyd lurks in the halls in the blond's shadow, scowling and stiff. Derek's left town with Cora, leaving all the little werewolves in Scott's new-found alpha lap, but then Erica gives Stiles an idea, to make the teenagers feel like real teenagers again. But before anything can be put into action everyone (Sheriff included) has to be convinced of his Super Awesome Wonderful Plan. (Surprisingly the Sheriff is the easiest to convince.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ready

It was Erica’s idea, though Stiles was more than happy to take the resulting blame. A week after Derek disappeared with his sister in tow and left behind the barely alive remains of what was once his pack to Scott (psychotic uncle included) Erica dropped into the seat next to Stiles in chemistry and sighed. Stiles rolled his head in her direction and made yes, what is it eyebrow motions that he would absolutely never admit to learning from Derek. Their substitute teacher in chemistry didn’t give two shits what the class did, as long as she wasn’t bothered while she played on her phone, so Erica flopped her arms down on the desk, pillowing her head on her elbows as she faced him. She didn’t speak, even when prodded with an elbow.

“What’s wrong, Catwoman?”

She exploded with a gusty sigh. “You mean besides the fact that I almost died, Boyd almost died, Isaac probably could have died, your father was almost sacrificed, Scott’s now our big alpha daddy, the wonder twins are still around breathing our air, and the sound of Lydia’s voice almost literally brings around death? Nothing at all.”

Stiles grinned a little despite himself, the dark humor making the thought of the past weeks almost bearable. He hadn’t really slept in a week, but if the hunch of Erica’s shoulders said what he thought it did she hadn’t either. 

“You know,” he said, completely ignoring the substitute as she explained that they would be watching (yet another) movie, this one about Einstein. “Sarcasm is a very flattering look for you. It really brings out your eyes.”

Erica laughed at that, loud and rough around the edges, just the wrong side of hysterical. The substitute gave her the evil eye before pointedly shutting off the lights. She looked even paler in her dark, smaller too. Stiles wanted to wrap his arm around her shoulders, but he didn’t want to lose his fingers for the effort.

“God,” she said, almost too softly for Stiles’ human ears to catch, “I just want to watch comic book movies and be a teenager for a while, you know? I’m so tired of scrambling to play academic catch-up because of a psycho group of killers kidnapped me to get at the worst alpha in history.”

And that, really, was all it took; a throw away comment, muttered wistfully in a dark classroom before she fell asleep and suddenly Stiles couldn’t leave the thought alone. When was the last time any of us have just been kids, Stiles thought to himself, staring at Erica while she dozed off for what was probably a much needed nap (he was jealous). Why couldn’t they just sprawl out for a weekend, ignore their homework and their crazy ass town, and watch comic book movies?

“Dad,” Stile said, scooting into his father’s office that afternoon. He had two salads stacked in his hands and his backpack was still slung (mostly) on one shoulder. He was exhausted from head to toe, but he was pretty sure that his dad hadn’t eaten anything, like, all day. This assumption was made since the Sheriff was still clearing up the mess from the week before. However that (rather justified) assumption was proven mistaken because when he barged into his father’s office he found the man draped over his desk with a greasy hamburger clutched in his hands.

The two stared at each other for a minute while the door swung shut behind Stiles. “This better be something other than what it looks like,” he said, with a pointed look to the bag from McDonald’s that was sitting by his father’s elbow. His father sighed, the motion causing his chest to rise and fall like an earthquake had happened.

“Son,” the Sheriff said, “I am still cleaning up the mess from last week, when I was kidnapped and held hostage? Do you remember that? Because I do, and according to me that earns me a burger. A juicy, greasy, meat burger. If you’ve got any objections, son, you can take them elsewhere, got it?”

There were two ways this could go. They could finally have that fight that was building or Stiles could give in. Or…

“One condition,” Stiles said quickly. He tried to pretend his shoulders weren’t tense and he could tell his father was doing the same. They hadn’t really talked since getting out of that stupid hole in the ground except to rehash the details that Stiles had tried to tell the Sheriff back in his bedroom with Cora. Melissa had told the Sheriff almost everything while held captive, but his dad had said he wanted to hear it from his son’s mouth and he had. Neither had been home a lot since then, Stiles’ hanging at Scott’s when he couldn’t sleep and the Sheriff working to clean up his trashed town and deal with Scott’s nosy FBI dad.

The Sheriff looked skeptical as his son’s words hung in the air, but after a long moment the man sighed and nodded at the chair in front of his desk. “Go ahead, kid,” he said. He was almost smiling.

So Stiles detailed his plan, starting, as all wheedling teenagers did, with a sympathetic cry for how hard their lives had been and how much they deserved a break. He figured his argument was a little bit more solid than other teenagers since he had literally sacrificed himself for his father, but hey, it wasn’t like he was well known to play fair. When he finished his spiel, winding down with an arm gesture that nearly knocked his father’s empty coffee cup from his desk, the Sheriff was definitely smiling a little bit at the corner of his mouth. He looked less tired for a moment and for the first time in a week (a week of nightmares, of waking up sweating and screaming, sick to his stomach as he dreamed of a dark that dragged at his ankles and kept him from saving those he loved, a week of hell that he didn’t see stopping anytime soon) Stiles thought that they might just come out of the whole werewolf mess okay.

“Sure thing, kid,” the Sheriff agreed. But then, with something approaching a wince, the man added, “Just… One condition?”

Stiles’ shoulders went from almost relaxed to tense in half a second. His heart leapt and his stomach plummeted. He braced himself for the worst. “Yeah, dad,” he croaked.

“If any of you find another body, make me your first call.”

Stiles laughed so hard at his father’s condition that he cried, shoulders heaving and hands shaking. He spilled both salads over his father’s office floor and laughed until his voice was just as hoarse as if he’d been screaming. The Sheriff watched the entire thing and was more sure than ever that Stiles was right; the teenager and his friends needed some time to just be kids again.

The only thing left for Stiles to do, after he cleaned up the spilled salad, was to convince his friends of this.


	2. set

He started with Erica because it had technically been her idea. But since he wasn’t stupid he waited until Friday morning to spring this surprise on everyone, after he had already collected the necessary soda and sugar snacks for a movie marathon. He dropped down into the chair next to Erica in chemistry, feeling that it was a little bit poetic since three days before Erica had pulled the same trick on him. Boyd gave him a Look before sitting pointedly next to Scott and Stiles knew that both of them would be listening in. Which, good, made it easier to break the news to the whole group.

“Hey, Catwoman,” he said. Erica cocked her eyebrow at him, head already pillowed on the desk. The movie of the day was Wall-E, which just went to show how much their substitute didn’t care anymore. But before Stiles could do much more than smile Erica blew her hair out of her face and frowned at him.

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard me out yet,” he pointed out, flopping down to mimic her position. Behind him he heard both Boyd and Scott snort, though the sound was tired and worn thin as anything Stiles had heard lately. He twitched his fingers at her, feeling the bone deep exhaustion all the way to his toes. They needed this. Oh god, they needed this. 

“Whatever it is,” she said, “I’m sure it’s a terrible and stupid idea.” She was obviously trying for mean, but it just came out thin and bitter. Stiles’ stomach turned and he breathed, even and deep, to settle himself. Then he tried a different route.

“It was your idea first, so you should probably take that kind of judgment back. Self loathing is so last week, you know?”

That got everyone’s attention, except for maybe Danny and Ethan’s. But Stiles wasn’t really aiming to get Danny and Ethan in on this because he was still a little gun shy on the whole let’s trust the crazy wonder twins just because they swear they’re done with evil. But whatever, it didn’t matter, all that mattered was getting everyone to agree. He had Scott’s attention and Boyd’s attention, even if he couldn’t see them, and he definitely had Erica’s attention, so it was on to real pitch. The blonde werewolf even sat up, head tilted toward him, her eyes lively and curious for the first time in weeks. 

“My idea?” Erica repeated. Her nose crinkled as she frowned at him more intensely. “What the hell are you talking about, Stilinski?”

“Comic book movie marathon. My place. Seven to whenever the hell we pass out. You, Scott, Boyd, Isaac, and as much pizza as we can eat and more soda than you can drink. I’ve already cleared it with my dad and I’ve got everything but the pizza. What do you say?”

Erica blinked at him for a full minute before collapsing back on the desk. “That wasn’t my idea,” she said finally, in short bursts of sounds. Then she reared back, her hand slipping into her tumbled curls as she slumped sideways to goggle at him more effectively. “I didn’t mean it,” she clarified.

“I don’t care,” Stiles told her frankly. He propped himself up on his palm, elbow against the uncomfortable desk, and stared her down. “I mean it. Are you in?”

“You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Boyd whispered behind him. Stiles glanced back at him, raising his eyebrows in a do I look like I’m kidding way, before settling back against the tabletop since Erica didn’t look ready to give him an answer. And at the end of the class, after staring at him like he was some piece of modern art she was trying to understand, the lights came on and Erica smiled, just a tiny bit, at the corner of her mouth.

“Sure,” she said as she stood up. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, a wave of golden curls that always looked like they were soft (which meant Stiles was always wondering in the back of his head about how they would feel, but that was his brain for you). Boyd came up behind her, a tall, dark, scowling hulk of a shadow, but Stiles was only focused on Erica.

“Count me in, Batman.”

Then she left with a little whirl of her skirt and the big, scary werewolf on her heels. Stiles had hoped to pester Boyd at the same time, but he decided to leave the other boy for later and scooped up his backpack instead. He was still grinning with glee at his first success when Scott grabbed him in the hall outside of class. His best friend’s jaw was clenched, highlighting the uneven edge to one side of his face. Scott’s eyes were tired and wide and as they locked with Stiles’ he felt his chest constrict with the familiar sinking ache of guilt.

“Is something going on,” Scott asked, hushed and frazzled. “What’s wrong? Are we using code now? What does comic book movie marathon stand for?”

Stiles grabbed his best friend’s shoulders, feeling his friend’s tense muscles. They were way, way too overworked for being a couple of teenagers. Buffy Summers couldn’t have said it better, he thought, remembering the last few weeks and how he had felt so sick, so scared. He knew Scott had felt just as bad as he had, just as pressured and small in the face of so much death.

They were sixteen years old. They shouldn’t be afraid to die so soon.

“No code, buddy,” the teen promised. He squeezed Scott’s shoulders, giving him the strongest smile he could conjure. “I’m serious. Movie marathon. Pizza. Soda. The works.”

For a second Scott looked like he was scared to hope, scared to be too relieved too soon. He shifted, ducked his head a little bit, and almost bit his lip. Then, with a heartbreaking tilt to his voice, he asked, “Just like when we were kids?”

The smile was easier to pull together the second time as Stiles straightened. He hadn’t slept much this past week, but when Scott smiled back it felt a little bit like waking up from a good nap.

“Yeah,” he swore, “Just like when we were kids.”

Some of the tension went out of his friend’s shoulders. “I’ll bring Isaac?”

“Oh yeah, bud. See you at seven.”

Scott’s smile was a little dopey when he walked away, which hiked this Good Idea up to the title of Great Idea. Stiles stopped in the hall and watched his best friend wander away, his hands curled around his backpack straps. But that left Boyd as the only one left to convince to come join their slumber party. Which, in hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have started out with those exact words.

“Oh come on, Boyd! It’ll be fun!”

“You’re a headache, Stilinski,” the other boy said, elbows propped up on the cafeteria table, chin propped on his hands. He didn’t seem interested in eating any of his lunch, but then again neither did Stiles. He’d sworn off public school lunch on the principal that the next evil doer could be the lunch lady. He wasn’t going to get killed by poisoned mystery meat, okay?

“And I’m not joining your little slumber party just because you say it’ll be fun.”

Boyd was always going to be the hardest one to sell on the idea, Stiles had known that. But it was another matter entirely to be faced with that hardheadedness outside of his planning. Not even his father had put up this much of a fight and it was his house they were probably going to trash in the name of being sixteen. Stiles groaned, flopping onto the table (perhaps a little dramatically). It was becoming a habit that they probably needed to stop, the whole dropping onto tables (dramatically) thing, but the naps he took in chemistry were the best sleep he had gotten in months and the cafeteria table wasn’t that uncomfortable, truth be told. Stiles figured he could out-wait Boyd if he needed to, napping on the table until he caved. Because the other boy had to cave since all of his friends had already agreed.

Sort of.

Or at least, that was the plan until Boyd stood up, picking up his tray and knocking into Stiles’ elbow with the plastic thing. Stiles scrambled up, argument on the tip of his tongue, but Boyd was shaking his head, a crooked grin tucked into the corner of his mouth. There were no fangs, but it was the type of smile that deserved fangs.

“Erica already talked me into it, Stiles. I’ll be there. Unfortunately.”

Stiles was almost grinning too hard to function. “Lies!” He shouted at Boyd’s back. “Slander!”

It had worked. He had gotten all the wolves to agree to his movie marathon slumber party (which is what it was, he was going to call it that for the rest of his life, just to annoy Boyd). He pumped his fist in the air before replacing his head on the table and napping for the rest of the lunch period.

It wasn’t until Lydia pinned him against the side of his Jeep, lips pinched together, eyes angry, that it occurred to him that his Perfect Plan might not have been so perfect. He shrunk away from her finger, his eyes bugging out a little bit, but the girl just leaned closer and narrowed her eyes some more.

“Stiles,” she said, prim and polite, “You are having a party without me.” She poked her finger into his chest, just below the sternum. Six months ago he would have leapt for joy at the chance to have Lydia Martin this close to him, but now it was actually more terrifying than the idea of knocking out the wonder twins’ mega-alpha form with a bat. His first instinct was to lie, to wave his hands and deny it to kingdom come and back, but this was Lydia Martin and he was fed up with lies. So he deflated and leaned into her touch slightly, his mouth quirking up to the side.

“We’re watching comic book movies,” Stiles explained. “I, uh, didn’t think you’d enjoy it?”

There was a twist to Lydia’s mouth, like she was pretty sure she wouldn’t enjoy it either, but it was obvious she had more than enough of being left out. She dug her finger into his chest a little bit more (which made him regret leaning into her touch) before she rolled her shoulders like a queen and tossing her hair over her shoulder. 

“Well, tough,” the red head huffed. “I will see you at seven. Should I bring anything?”

_Well_ , Stiles thought. He felt a little bad for not thinking of it earlier but, to be fair, she’d be a little crazy for a while…

“Allison,” he shrugged.

Lydia’s smile was a little bit like approval, but also a lot like dismissal. “Good,” she breathed, before spinning on her heels and stomping away toward her car. Stiles sagged bonelessly against the side of his Jeep before shrugging and shooting off a text to his dad to let him know that there would be two more teenagers than expected at his super awesome slumber party. His father’s only response was short and as disinterested as the swish of Lydia’s skirt as she walked away.

You’re sixteen, son. Please don’t call it a slumber party.

Everybody was a critic, man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed a lot more than I thought I would, but here you go. Should probs have the next chapter up in a few hours (if I don't go back to watching Shugo Chara). Lemme know what you think!


	3. lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sleep over/movie marathon begins. It starts out rough, but common ground is found.

Stiles’ first foray into slumber party hosting started off horrifically. They spent the first two movies, Iron Man 1 and 2, barely eight seconds away from ripping each other apart at all points in time, but then the pizza came. Through a series of events Stiles would be revisiting in therapy (with someone who _wasn’t Morell, oh my god_ ) and in therapy _only_ Isaac and Lydia bonded over pineapple and ham, of all things, and things got surprisingly easier and easier to handle. It helped that Boyd and Allison bonded over how utterly gag-worthy and disgusting everything but pepperoni was (their words not his). Everyone else stared helplessly as a brief and stiltedly polite conversation about fashion erupted as they broke out the third case of soda, but then they started the third movie and found the most common ground on the topic of Thor.

Or, it wasn’t really common ground, Stiles clarified for his dad later that weekend; they argued like a couple of roosters in an illegal animal fighting ring, but it was the kind of arguing that they were supposed to have, he insisted. It was the kind of argument teenagers had every day of the week over stupid things, like- like- _Okay_ , so Stiles wasn’t sure what teenagers argued about anymore. But he knew it was stupid and refreshing and not about who distracted which alpha so they didn’t all die viciously. 

“I’m not taking a side in this argument,” Scott said, for the fifth time.

“Scott,” Erica threatened. “Take a side or perish.”

“I think you mean, Scott take _my_ side or you will perish.”

“Martin, only a blind woman would argue that Hiddleston is more attractive than Hemsworth.”

“Having a brain is sometimes more attractive than muscles, _Reyes_.”

Isaac’s face scrunched up and, before anyone could stop him, he said, “Then why were you dating _Jackson_?”

There was a moment of silence where Stiles mourned for Isaac’s inevitable death. _He was so young_ , he thought forlornly. 

“Despite popular belief, Jackson wasn’t a total moron,” Lydia said. Her voice was a little chilly, but she didn’t lunge and rip out the blonde’s throat for mentioning He Who Shall Never Be Brought Up. It was their weird bond of sub-par pizza, Stiles figured; it bought him a one-time only pass, like a Get Out Of Jail Free card. “He wasn’t devious like Loki,” she insisted, toes twitching against Stiles’ leg, “but he was sweet.”

Boyd snorted, nearly choking on his soda. “Are we talking about the same Jackson? He shoved Stiles in a locker, once.”

Lydia glanced over at Stiles, then away, back to the television where Thor was wrestling with hospital staff and roaring his rage. For a second he could have sworn she looked sad and apologetic, but the expression was gone before he could determine how he felt about that. Her toes twitched against his leg again, like a liar’s tell.

“To be fair, I hit Stiles in the head with a part from his own car once,” Erica said. She shrugged at Lydia and popped some M&M’s in her mouth, like it was no big deal. The elephant in the room was that Stiles could have knocked out a pretty mean drum solo on the taunt line of her shoulders. Or at least he would have been able to if he hadn’t given up the drums when they moved up into high school. Some days he missed band class. 

“I like to think of it as our moment of bonding,” Stiles retorted easily, coming back from that train of thought as quickly as he could. It was a pretty much accepted fact in his life that every single one of his friends would try to kill him sooner or later. It was easier to deal with it this way, with humor and too much sugar, than to panic or waste energy to find new friends. Allison and Lydia were actually the only two in the room who hadn’t done something painful and terrifying to him, but he was sure their time would come. “When we clicked, for real, and became an unstoppable duo of pure awesome.”

“Like Mushu and the cricket from Mulan?” Scott wondered. Stiles shook his head at him, grinning a little bit. On the screen Thor slipped his restraints and Jane ran through the hospital, looking for her ticket to her big scientific discovery. 

“Actually,” Erica said, sounding oddly serious, “I think our true bonding moment was when you dragged me across town and held me while I had a seizure, despite the fact that I broke your car and knocked you unconscious.” The mood shifted, small and soft, and Stiles swallowed thickly. That had been up there with the top ten most horrible moments of his life, though within the last two months it had been knocked down into the top twenty. He couldn’t find the words to acknowledge the depth of emotion in Erica’s voice, so he did the next best thing he could. He grinned, shrugged, and rolled his eyes, shaking it all off with a joke.

“Hush, Catwoman; you’re gonna miss Hemsworth’s perfect abs.”

She hummed, grinning a little, and the tension drained almost completely from her shoulders. There was a moment of silence as the room appreciated the view Thor made without his shirt, unfortunately tucked away in the lab bathroom where they could only bask in a small portion of all his attractive glory. He turned and the living room sighed, almost completely in sync with one another.

“I think Derek has better abs than he does,” Scott said, soft and thoughtful. 

It was the first time they’d brought up Derek since the he left and the room froze a little, not sure how to handle it. Boyd, Isaac, and Erica were kind of his werewolf children and after months of being pestered Scott and Stiles felt like the guys’ only friends; the idea of being left behind made them all feel a little bit like baby birds screaming in a knocked over nest. But then Boyd nodded, like they were talking about serious life and death matters, and said, “I think so too,” which had the whole room laughing, even Lydia, though they weren’t really sure why they were laughing. 

“Brains and brawn can be equally attractive,” Lydia said finally, when they were all done giggling and the movie’s scene had changed to the diner. “But can we talk about how brilliant Jane and Darcy are?”

“I kind of want to marry Darcy,” Allison confessed.

There was a chorus of agreements and they shared another laugh. Isaac mumbled something about having a crush on Jane when the movie had first come out and Stiles had yelled _here, here_ louder than was probably necessary. By the time Captain America was finished they were arguing over who would be which Avenger.

“Allison’s Hawkeye,” Scott announced, like anyone was going to argue that point. Allison preened under his attention, though, which made the cuddle pile that she and Isaac were in a little bit weird, Stiles wasn’t going to lie. (He was also not going to lie; he had wondered where the hell those three were going, relationship wise. He had contemplated the teenage angst and confusion that would come from a threesome relationship and, honestly, it was half fascinating and half horrifying. He was so glad he was probably going to be single forever when he looked at them.)

“Then you’re Captain America, buddy,” he pointed out. Scott made a face like he wanted to protest, but everyone else in the room was nodding enthusiastically, so he fell back on the couch with a grin and a shrug.

“I think Boyd would make a good Coulson,” Erica said, from somewhere inside the blanket fort she had constructed during the break between Thor and Captain America. She had wrestled everyone’s blanket away from them to build it and Stiles was kind of impressed. He was weighing the pros and cons of inviting Erica early next time, so they could turn the entire living room into one huge blanket fort. The pros were outweighing the cons, that was for sure.

“Seconded,” Isaac chimed in.

“Can I be Iron Man?”

“No, Stiles, you cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m Iron Man,” Lydia answered, prim and proper, like it was the obvious answer. He made a face at her and she smiled, turning to curl her toes even further under his legs on the couch. She jerked the only blanket that Erica hadn’t gotten further away from him, pulling it up to her shoulders and preening a little bit. “But you can be my Pepper Potts if you want,” she promised, like it was a gift. He paused, imagined it, and snorted. 

“No offense, but I am never going to be able to pull of heels like she can, no matter how many drag queens I befriend.”

Scott perked up from where he was trying to build his own pillow fort. He was doing a pretty poor job of it, but if anyone said anything about how terrible it was Stiles was going to cut them. No one bothered his bro’s pillow fort. “How are the queens, anyway?”

“Good,” Stiles answered. He hadn’t talked to the queens much since school started, but they were fine last time he had chatted. There was a thought bothering him in the back of his head, though, something about the Hulk and his guilt. He was trying to figure out who the Hulk would be, because the queens had reminded him of something, the way they described someone. “They,” he started, before trailing off in his own head.

The room glanced over at him as he trailed off. The menu screen for Captain America popped back on the television and he got up, mechanically, to change DVDs. It was almost four in the morning and they were starting to lag, but only just barely. They would probably make it through the entirety of the Avengers before passing out, he was sure. He picked up the Avengers case, still trying to pin down the thought in the back of his head, only to stutter to a complete stop when he glanced down.

 _That man is tall, dark and muscled as hell_ , Miss Mosey said in his memory. They had been talking about Derek, because Derek was rude and had kept Stiles away from a coffee date with the drag queen one afternoon to do research for him. Miss Mosey had demanded photographic evidence of the _rude goddamn asshole throwing you around like a doll_ and he had snapped a picture of Derek’s profile before the werewolf could argue and flash his laser eyes at him. _Good thing too, though, right? You said he’s got problems. Looks like he’s got the strength to pull that sack of problems around._

“Guys,” he said, turning to face the living room. He felt a little off balance, but he took a deep breath and grinned anyway. “I know who the Hulk is.”

“Isaac,” Boyd guessed. He gave the blonde curled around Allison a shit eating grin and Stiles liked to imagine that if Boyd had been a lesser man he would have added in a kissy face. Boyd was no lesser man, however, and his deadpan voice and grin was not coupled with an over the top air kiss. Isaac shot a glare and a growl at the other boy, but Stiles shook his head, heart in his throat.

“It’s Derek,” he said. 

Derek had all the guilt, the unstable past, the rage and the pain bottled up in him. Not to mention how he avoided detection, staying away from renting a real apartment because it would get him found faster. The more Stiles thought about it, the more sure he was that Derek Hale would make the perfect Bruce Banner.

“Then who am I?” Isaac wondered. He was pouting a little bit and Allison clucked her tongue at him, patting him on the head. Stiles glanced at Scott, but his best friend didn’t seem to mind that his new roommate was getting cooed over by his ex-girlfriend. Stiles made a face of confusion in their general direction as he turned around to put the DVD in. 

“The only two left are Black Widow and Thor,” Erica said. She glanced between Isaac and the ground, her nose scrunching up just the barest bit like she didn’t know which one she wanted to be. There was definite possibility for both, Stiles realized, perking up a little bit at the challenge. He took a moment to imagine Erica in the Black Widow suit, glad he was facing the television when he did so. 

“Isaac’s Black Widow,” Boyd said. Lydia glanced at him, calculating, and then nodded. Stiles stared at him blankly over his shoulder before accidentally imaging the blonde boy in the Black Widow suit. Which… Wasn’t a terrible image? Stiles made a face at himself, because there was no way he was touching that strange love triangle bullshit they had going on. The first step was admitting he was hot, then _wham_ he would be macking on Scott. Or something. And no, just _no_. “Which makes you Thor, Erica.”

“I accept your decision, Son of Coul,” the blond said, mock grave. Stiles pictured it and then nodded, seeing the appeal. Erica had to have been taught a lesson in power and the responsible way to use it, after all. Stiles wished she had a sassy handsome-as-fuck adopted brother he could drool over, but oh well. And Isaac had the terrible past abused, which wasn’t spot on with Natasha Romanov’s, but it was close enough. Allison had also kind of brought him over to the right side as well, and Scott and Isaac had a thing going on, just like Black Widow and Captain America. Erica had been mimicking a royal bow toward Boyd, but she paused, eyes snapping to Stiles, and they both froze awkwardly, staring at one another like a couple of deer in headlights. 

“But what about Stiles?” She blurted out. She looked small and unsure, like she had when she woke up to find they had just barely saved her life, and Stiles hated that look on her.

 _Oh_ , Stiles thought. He tried to think on his feet, but everyone but Nick Fury was taken. Which, uh, no thank you. 

“He’s Peter Parker,” Scott said, blinking at Erica like this was common knowledge. One of his pillows fell from its precarious position, but he didn’t seem to notice. He then followed his declaration up with a drawled out, “ _duh_ ,” that proved he thought the conversation on which super hero Stiles would be was idiotic. Like Stiles would always be Peter Parker, the great Spider-man, with so much responsibility on his shoulders, all alone. It didn’t really escape his notice that Spider-man wasn’t really an official Avenger, helping the gang but always alone to face his own demons. Peter Parker, with the huge brain, small muscles, and big mouth, nothing but a danger to everyone he loved. 

For a small moment it felt like Stiles was having another panic attack. But after the moment of morbid consideration and small sea sickness Stiles let it go, grinning at his best friend as he returned to share the couch with Lydia. Spider-man was one of the coolest super heroes ever created. He could live with the decision. 

“Long as I’m not Nick Fury,” he said. Lydia planted her feet in his lap like he was her human shaped stool and he curled a hand over her ankle, squeezing. She kicked at him softly, but then smiled. He wanted her to be his Mary Jane or something (not Gwen, Spier-man _killed_ Gwen, so anything but his Gwen), but she was too good for that. Iron Man was perfect for Lydia, because he was brilliant and she was brilliant, plus they were both haunted and they used the way society viewed them to get the upper hand. Also because they were both classy and sassy and couldn’t really give two shits for the way authority was supposed to work. The only startling difference between those two were their tastes in music and alcohol. Stiles turned from his contemplation of Lydia Martin’s status as Iron Man and focused on the Marvel masterpiece, for what was probably the tenth time since it had come out o DVD.

They ended up breaking a lamp, clearing out the fridge of all the food in it (even the stuff that was weeks old), and ordering two rounds of pizza, one a nine and one at two am. The Sheriff found their bodies sprawled across the living room the next morning when he got off shift, each of them curled around pillows and each other in a way that might have had him worried if he hadn’t been so tired. Or at least that was what Stiles figured. His dad cooked them bacon, having the werewolves hold his son down when he protested. It was an okay trade off, he figured, because Stiles got to listen to his father’s laughter as the other teenagers piled on top of him and smacked him with pillows. It was past noon, but the bacon tasted delicious and the way Scott’s elbow pressed against his ribs while Erica held a pillow against his face and shrieked was the closest thing to perfect that had been achieved by mortal beings in months. 

“Next time,” Lydia said, curled up on the kitchen counter. She was sitting like a queen, despite her rumpled clothing and tangled hair. She paused as the Sheriff handed her a cup of coffee, both of them smiling softly at each other as she accepted it and brought it to her lips. She took a sip, purposefully keeping them waiting, and Stiles grinned at her from his position at the bottom of the puppy pile. “Next time we’re watching Disney movies.”

Stiles watched as Erica narrowed her eyes at the red head, dread coiling in his chest.

“Original Disney?” Erica asked, sounding like the answer would decide if she tried to claw Lydia’s limbs from her body or not.

“Of course,” Allison answered airily. The three girls then exchanged pleased smiles, which sent chills down Stiles’ spine. Dangerous females should not be friends with other dangerous females, he thought, though the protest inside of him was feeble despite the way it raised the likelihood of Lydia and Allison accidentally (or purposefully) trying to kill him. 

At least they were happy, he thought fuzzily. He grinned at the ceiling, laughing a little when his father rolled his eyes and muttered, mock forlornly, about his poor house being destroyed by teenagers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses. I'm avoiding writing something else, so I'll be uploading the rest of this today. Sorry. I hope you enjoyed.


	4. camera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Disney movie marathon begins, but not before a fort is built by two terrifying and gorgeous girls, everyone get a round of Black Ops Zombies out of their system, and pizza is eaten.

Stiles started off the Disney movie marathon Friday by inviting Erica three hours earlier and going on a blanket-finding spree that spanned two hours and three different department stores. Lydia ended up coming with them, for reasons Stiles couldn’t figure out at first, but it turned out that she wanted to try her hand at applying math to their blanket fort.

“You’re serious,” Stiles said, when she climbed into the back seat of his Jeep and announced her goal. Erica was eying her closely, curiously, her eyes narrowed in either skeptical doubt or excitement. She looked like a predator sizing up another predator.

“Very, very serious,” she agreed. “I used to do it as a kid; it should be even easier now that I have a full understanding of trig.”

“How much of an understanding of trig did you have as a kid,” Stiles shrieked incredulously. Lydia and Erica shared a glance before rolling their eyes at him. He groaned loudly, threw his head back into the seat, but dutifully took off anyway.

Building the blanket fort was a little bit like having two generals yell at you in the middle of battlefield, one of them speaking French, the other speaking Spanish, while you could only speak English. Stiles ended up hiding under the table in the kitchen and letting the banshee and she-werewolf duke it out over fleece blankets and body pillows in peace. He was still hiding under there when they finished, sauntering in, high heels clicking ominously toward him. He could only see their legs, which were great, _gorgeous_ legs, their skirts ruffled and swishing around their thighs despite the temperature being somewhere in the low fifties at its highest. 

“Stiles,” Lydia said, sounding droll and patient. Stiles wasn’t fooled, however. He glanced at the back door and weighed the odds of escaping. They weren’t in his favor. “ _Stiles_.”

“Yes, oh terrifying queen of my heart?”

Lydia sighed from somewhere not under the table, but in a fond way, like she was smiling. Erica dropped to her knees in one fluid easy movement, peering under the table at him. She rolled her eyes at the way he was curled up against the far leg of the table before she crawled under there with him, slinking toward him in a way he might have found hot if he wasn’t so wary. But all Erica did was curl against his side, all warm skin and flowering girl scent, and he wrapped an arm around her slowly, squeezing softly. 

“Hey,” she said, smiling a little. Her lipstick was some variation of pink that probably had a terrible name, like _kiss me salmon_ or something. Stiles didn’t really think it suited her, though he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her that. If there was one thing he’d learn it was you didn’t tell girls they didn’t look good, because it didn’t matter what you thought; if they thought they were gorgeous, they were fucking gorgeous.

His mother and Melissa had drilled that into his head when he was a kid, sitting on his mom’s bed and watching them get all dressed up for special dinners. Scott hadn’t really had that lesson stick, as they had seen that Monday when he told Allison her shoes didn’t match her skirt, but Stiles had always paid more attention to what their moms were trying to teach them. 

“Hi,” he said back. 

“Oh for Christ’s sake, both of you; I did not just spend almost an hour putting together a blanket fort just for the pair of you to hide under the _kitchen table_. Get out of there!”

Erica chuckled into his neck, her hands curled into the material of his plaid shirt. “Do you have Black Ops,” she asked into his throat. He smoothed his hands down her back and nodded.

“You wanna play Zombies?”

“What the ever loving hell is _zombies_?”

Erica pressed a kiss to his cheek and Stiles went pink, probably the same shade as her lipstick. He felt the sticky beauty product smear against his jaw, but he didn’t care. “C’mon,” she said against his jaw, “let’s go show Lydia what she’s been missing.” She pulled away and crawled from under the table, mindless of her skirt or her heels or the dirt on the floor. 

“I’ve been _trying_ to show Lydia what she’s been missing since _third grade_ ,” Stiles countered, mock annoyed. He crawled out after her, figuring that if she flashed him and got pissed it wasn’t his fault. She didn’t flash him. Stiles wasn’t disappointed, he swore.

“Well,” Lydia said when he came out, hands on her hips and toe tapping, “I didn’t even notice you existed until last semester, so you were doing a pretty terrible job of it.”

Stiles sputtered, but Erica laughed and patted him on the head like a puppy. “Don’t worry, Stiles,” she cooed at him, “I noticed you.” He turned a little pink at that, probably going straight past Erica’s lipstick and into the shade of a kindergartener’s first ballet tutu. 

“I wish I had noticed you,” he blurted. He was being honest, because Erica was amazing and if there was anyone who could have gotten his third grade self’s head out of his ass it would have been her. Erica rewarded him with a beaming smile, none of her usual vixen bravo in the expression, and over her shoulder Lydia gave him a smaller, sadder smile.

“Zombies,” he prompted, because having two gorgeous girls smile at him like that was going to fry his brain if he didn’t.

By the time the others arrived half an hour later (they were _late_ , Stiles wanted to be annoyed but couldn’t be) Erica was wearing one of his shirts and both of the girls’ heels had been kicked off into the corner of the room. Lydia was even killing zombies, though she dropped every couple of minutes, snarling whenever she did so. Scott let himself, Isaac, and Boyd in just as Lydia got downed again and she shrieked, causing them to panic and rush into the room. They skidded to a stop before they crossed the threshold, though, finally registering the familiar sounds of the Call of Duty game.

“Why,” Lydia shrieked, shaking her controller at the television. She was sitting cross legged under the blanket fort, her knees propped on the back of Stiles’ thighs from where he was sprawled on his stomach toward the television. Erica’s legs were draped over Stiles’ lower back, her back propped up on about a million pillows as she blew the brains out of the hordes of undead with the sniper rifle she had gotten from the Box. 

“I told you that gun sucked,” Erica answered, though instead of mocking she sounded genuinely apologetic. “Hold on, I’ll come and get you. Stiles, can you hit the pad?”

“You got it,” he promised. He was three rooms away, a train on his ass, but he could hit the teleport pad, easy peasy. “Oh, hi guys,” he said, absent and distracted as he whirled around on the stairs to kill off a chunk of his zombie train. Erica sighed longingly as he did so, knocking the heel of her foot into his side.

“I wish I had the ray gun,” she complained. 

“Too bad, so sad.”

“Is this _Heaven_?” Scott asked. He sounded dazed and a little bit like he was drooling. It was the tone of voice he used to use to talk about Allison and her perfect hair and lips and eyes. It was good to know that tone still applied to make believe zombie slaughter, Stiles thought fondly. He grinned at the television in lieu of grinning at his best friend, a laugh bubbling in his chest.

“Why don’t you climb under here and find out,” Stiles prompted and in less than ten seconds Scott was curled into the space beside Lydia, throwing his upper torso across Stiles’ lower back and Erica’s legs to rest his chin on Stiles’ shoulder. 

“I’m in next round,” he said, wriggling around. Erica jerked her legs from under Scott and plopped them down on Scott’s back, casting a quick glance at Lydia to check that she hadn’t blocked the other girl’s sight of the television.

“You’re good,” Lydia answered, the unanswered question. 

“You guys do realize we’re supposed to be watching Disney movies, right?”

“Don’t be such a buzz kill, Boyd,” Isaac said, all of a sudden. He was crawling under the edge of the blanket fort too, though he didn’t try to fight his way into the puppy pile. “When was the last time you sat around and killed zombies, just because?”

There was a long pause, one that dragged at Stiles’ heart. He glanced back, forgetting the zombies in the silence, forgetting that the blanket fort blocked his view of the living room doorway, before he jerked his eyes back to the screen. He hit the teleport pad and waited, with a feeling a little bit like dread and also a little bit like excitement in his chest, for Boyd to answer. He heard the rustle of fabric and then Boyd was crouched on the outside of the blanket fort, his eyes sweeping over the bodies of his friends before being drawn back to the television. 

“I’ve never really had friends to sit around and slaughter zombies with,” he said finally. Stiles’ character on the television made it to the teleporter and, figuring it was safe, he glanced over to look at Boyd. Boyd was smiling a little bit, though it looked strained and sad and more worn out than his dad’s old sneakers, the ones with the frayed laces and the hole in the bottom of the sole. 

“Well, if we have to reenact Shawn of the Dead, you’ll be my first call,” Stiles promised.

Scott sputtered, biting Stiles’ shoulder lightly. “I’m supposed to be your first call,” the alpha shouted in the teenager’s ear. Stiles yelped and tried to buck Scott off, but he was over a hundred pounds of werewolf muscle, so that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

“Watch the teeth, buddy, _watch the teeth_. I like my eyebrows too much to become one of you!”

They didn’t get around to watching Disney movie for another two hours, because once Allison arrived she demanded to be taught how to play. They switched around the controllers, tossing them over each other’s heads. The pizza arrived and they let the game end, kicking the controllers toward the television as they all scrambled up to grab food. 

“Which movies first then,” Allison asked from where she was perched on the kitchen table, next to the eight boxes of pizza Lydia had called in. “I brought all the ones we had at home, though there weren’t many. We moved around too much to really keep too many movies. But I have Bambi-“

“Please tell me your father watched Bambi with you as a child. Please tell me your father _cried_.”

Allison ignored Stiles with pointed grace. “But I also have Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella and Peter Pan, so…”

Everyone listed off the movies they had brought, arguing over the order they were going to watch them all in. They eventually agreed on Lion King, on the clause that they were allowed to watch the second one too, so that they could ogle the overly attractive lion son of that sly bastard Scar.

“How did Scar produce such a hot son,” Stiles wondered aloud as he stole a slice of cheese from Scott’s plate. Scott made a face at him, muttered _bestiality_ under his breath and then grabbed Stiles’ soda to steal a sip. Stiles ignored him because they were bros. 

“Are we doing that thing where we decide who is who again,” Isaac wondered aloud. He had pizza sauce smeared on his chin, which Allison wiped away with her thumb and proceeded to lick it off. Isaac gave her a smile that was right out of Scott’s arsenal. Lydia caught Stiles’ eye and rolled hers toward the ceiling and he laughed.

“I think we should,” Boyd offered. “Why, you have an idea of someone’s identity already?”

“I think Scar is Peter,” the blonde offered up. Scott and Stiles nodded readily in agreement. Boyd made a face, muttered something that was probably unkind under his breath, but it was Lydia’s reaction that surprised Stiles.

“If only pushing that bastard off a cliff would solve all our problems. I’m sure there are a few hyenas at the zoo we could borrow if necessary.”

“Why are you talking about Peter like he’s still alive?”

The group turned to look at Allison, their face varying degrees of _oh shit_. Allison looked from one to another, her mouth twisting as she did. “He died,” she repeated. “He killed my aunt Kate and Derek killed him. I _saw_ it.”

“I tried to tell you last semester,” Lydia said. She sounded apologetic, though Stiles could tell by the hold of her shoulders that she was still a little bitter about the whole thing. Stiles kicked out, pressed his socked foot against Lydia’s knee from where she was standing in the kitchen, but she didn’t look at him. Allison looked between them, her eyes narrowing. “I tried to tell you something was going on, but you wouldn’t listen,” Lydia insisted. 

“You’re kidding,” the brunette replied, flat. “Please, tell me this is a bad joke and you aren’t actually implying Peter Hale is alive right now.”

And that was how Chris Argent received a call at nine at night informing him that his sister’s murderer was breathing once again. They eventually got around to watching the movies, though after the announcement Allison requested they skip Lion King and jump straight into the second one. Stiles mourned the lost opportunity of making the group sing _Be Prepared_ or _Hakuna Matatta_ but he decided it would be okay. There were a lot of other song and dance numbers he could bully his friends into singing with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, cannot believe I let this rot for so long. I'm the worst. I hope someone enjoyed.


	5. action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several weeks after the Disney movie marathon, Isaac has a suggestion to alter their Marvel lineup. Stiles isn't pleased, but he can't argue with the facts. They also, accidentally, break another lamp.

They didn’t really revisit the topic of which super hero they’d be for another three weeks after the Disney marathon night, at which point the Friday Night Movie Marathon Slumber Party group got three people larger. It was Scott’s fault, because instead of some sort of lost pizza man willing to give them free pizza (their lives were not a television drama, Scott, things like that didn’t happen, ever, so _shut up, jeez_ ) the knock at the door turned out to be Aiden, Ethan, and Danny. (Stiles realized later the only reason Scott suggested it was a lost pizza man was because he knew Stiles wouldn’t get up to answer the door to let in the invited-but-not-by-him guests if he knew who they were. His best friend was a lazy manipulative bastard. Stiles was grudgingly impressed.)

“No,” Stiles said, before closing the door in the twins (and Danny’s) faces. 

“Rude, Stinlinski,” Danny said loudly from the other side. Stiles made a face at him through the door that he couldn’t see, but he didn’t care. No way in hell, he thought firmly. “Very rude. I’m telling Lydia.”

“I’m not scared of Lydia,” he shouted through the door. Three seconds later Lydia’s fingers curled around the collar of his shirt and she yanked him backward, choking him. Lydia then took the matter completely out of his hands by bodily pulling him away from the front door, rolling her eyes at his obvious lie while she did it.

“They’re pack,” she told him simply, quietly. At Stiles’ sputter she shrugged a little and sighed. She didn’t look entirely pleased by this notion either, though, and Stiles remembered the fight he had sort of witnessed last week between Aiden and Lydia. 

(He had not been snooping, despite what Lydia said when she found out; he had been sleeping in the library’s back corner and awoke to the sounds of their whispered argument. It wasn’t his fault Aiden was too dumb to check for nearby heart beats. If he didn’t want Stiles to know Lydia was fed up with his murderous attitude then he should have been more careful.)

“We need a screening process for new pack members,” he replied, but he stopped fighting and let her pull open the front door and usher the three teenage boys in. Stiles made a point of drawing the twins’ attention to the sign Isaac and Erica had made for him last week, the one that read, “Welcome to the Slumber Party. Please leave all wofly attitudes at the front door to be picked up upon your departure. Thank you.” Danny made a puzzled confused sort of noise at the poster, still unaware that he was banging a werewolf, but Ethan cracked a small grin.

“I like the glitter glue,” Ethan said, taking a seat on the floor with Danny. Stiles mentally awarded Ethan five points to Slytherin for that comment, because anyone who liked glitter glue was a person worth giving the consideration of a second chance to.

“I don’t,” Aiden said. He sat on the couch, where Stiles had been sitting with Lydia. Where Stiles _always_ sat with Lydia, because that was their spot. Erica, Scott, Allison and Isaac tended to switch their floor positions around every Friday, but Boyd always sat on the arm chair and Stiles always shared the couch with Lydia. It was their new thing, along with being the only squishy humans (or human-banshees) around who couldn’t handle a crossbow or kill a man with their flashy Asian knives. 

Stiles immediately took fifteen points away from Slytherin, mentally apologizing to the good ( _okay_ , less evil) twin that his evil twin had been sorted into the same house. 

“Too bad, so sad,” Lydia retorted, shoving Aiden off the couch and onto the floor next to his brother. Stiles wasn’t quite sure how she made a boy with that much muscle mass move, but she did it as easily a she did long division, which was _so_ impressive. She then dragged Stiles back to the couch, placing him down like her own life sized Ken doll and shoving her feet under his thigh, as was their usual routine. Aiden looked pissed for all of ten seconds, before Ethan hit him on the arm and made him settle down. Then he just looked sullenly pissed, like a wet cat. 

“Can someone please hit play,” the red head then requested, obviously too regal to get up and do it herself. 

“Twenty points to Ravenclaw,” Stiles muttered, curling his hand around her ankle. She smiled at him, pleased, and he felt a little bit better than he had before. 

Isaac was the one to bring up the matter of their superhero line up, when he was sitting in the passenger seat of the Jeep while he and Stiles made the usual midnight food run. (After the two am pizza run the first time they had set up a system where they ate immediately at seven, then again at midnight and then snack binged until they passed out. Then the Sheriff made them breakfast at noon and everyone left around four or five pm, feeling a little bit sick in the stomach, but better mental-health wise.) They had already picked up the Chinese from the place downtown that was open extra late, having dropped the Sheriff his lo mien on the way back home, but Isaac had been restless since they had hopped in the car. When Stiles couldn’t take it anymore he snapped, “ _what_ ,” out as nicely as he could. Isaac immediately stopped fidgeting and froze. 

“I think we need to change our Avengers line up,” Isaac said, completely out of the blue.

“Okay,” he replied, dragging out the syllables. “That was random. I thought we were discussing Harry Potter housing this week? I’m still waffling on Boyd’s housing, to be honest, but shoot; I’m up for the topic. Who you wanna discuss switching? Please tell me you don’t wanna be someone lame, like Ant Man or-“

“No, not me. I, uh… I think we should make the twins the Hulk.”

Derek had been gone four and a half weeks and Stiles missed him more than he was willing to admit to anyone, ever. The idea of replacing him in their stupid fictional Avengers line up made his stomach clench. For a split second it was like he was back in that tub of water in Deaton’s clinic, but then it passed and he said, “yeah?”

“Yeah,” Isaac replied reluctantly. He sounded vaguely unhappy. “Ethan’s a little like the Bruce Banner side while Aiden’s all Hulk. And I mean… They can’t communicate in their combined form, just like the Hulk can barely communicate. And they destroy a lot of stuff.”

Stiles felt a little bit like screaming, just for a second. He couldn’t understand why, past the part where he didn’t really like the idea of anyone replacing Derek in their lives. He didn’t really want to examine too closely why he didn’t want anyone to replace Derek, because he was pretty sure that would undo him completely.

“Who would Danny be,” he asked finally, because if he didn’t move the topic along he was going to lose it.

“I thought he might be Pepper Potts or Betty Ross,” Isaac said. He sounded very careful, like the way Stiles talked to Scott when he wolfed out suddenly, and when Stiles chanced a glance away from the road the blond was turned in his seat, facing him and looking serious. 

Stiles glanced back at the road and, before he could stop himself, blurted out, “What about Derek?”

“I think making Derek the Hulk was a little off. He’s got the anger and power and guilt, I guess, but… I think there’s a more fitting person for him to be.”

“ _Who_?”

If his voice was strangled and raw, Isaac didn’t mention it. He just took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh.

“Wolverine.”

Stiles swallowed, feeling the phantom rush of ice against his skin again. He nodded, slow and careful while he thought and after a moment decided that maybe Isaac was right; Wolverine was a little more fitting for Derek’s nature, for his past and his guilt and his control. 

“I think you’re right,” he told Isaac and the teenager beamed, looking relieved and pleased with himself. Stiles wondered if Isaac had been that pleased whenever he mastered something wolfy Derek had taught him and if it sent the same tingle of bittersweet warmth through the ex-alpha’s gut too. Isaac clutched their dinner to his chest like a trophy as he brought it into the house while Stiles followed behind him. He felt a little bit like he was floating on a cloud and, without any preamble at all, Stiles walked over to Danny and asked, “How do you feel about being Betty Ross?”

“I have no feelings against being Betty Ross as long as I don’t have to wear Pepper Pott’s heels,” Danny answered, though it was obvious he wasn’t quite sure what he was answering, deep down. He had been utterly bemused when they had started the house sorting during the first movie, but if there was a talent Danny had it was rolling with the really weird punches his friends dished out. He shrugged. “Who’s the Hulk?”

“Your boyfriend.”

“Ah.”

Wolverine and Spider-man didn’t really have reasons to interact with one another, Stiles reflected as they sat down to watch the forth Harry Potter movie. There was the series where Wolverine and Spider-man fought each other, but other than that and a few smart remarks thrown around whenever they both helped out the Avengers there wasn’t much (or any, really) positive contact between the two. It depressed Stiles, but he let it go. Not like it really mattered anymore anyway, since Derek hadn’t made contact with anyone since leaving.

“Stiles thinks Boyd would make a good keeper,” he insisted instead for the third time that night in an attempt to distract himself from his depressing thoughts.

“Boyd thinks Stiles shouldn’t speak in third person.”

“Stiles thinks Boyd is an oppressive asshole.”

“I will impale you on a broom handle,” Lydia informed him sweetly. She shared a smile with Boyd before patting his head, like he was a cute puppy. Stiles sputtered and tried to get away from her hand, but her fingers curled in his hair, using it like a handlebar.

“Five points from Ravenclaw,” he said, pointedly not pouting.

“For fuck’s sake, Stiles,” Erica cried out from her corner of the blanket and pillow fort she had made, expertly, hours before the party had started. It had suffered a little bit of collateral damage when Scott and Isaac had reenacted the battle between the basilisk and Harry via pillows, but it was still a solid, good fort. (Lydia had refused to be Fawkes, but Allison had been a beautiful Ginny. Though if they had really been in that situation Allison would have slain that stupid giant snake in half a second while the boys cowered and cried like babies, a fact they all acknowledged with sage nods. Danny hadn’t even bothered to ask how the dimpled brunette could take down a sixty foot snake. Stiles thought he was tired of questioning their odd behavior.)

“Don’t curse at Dumbledore,” Ethan said, surprising everyone. 

“Fifty points to Slytherin,” Stiles said, beaming at the less evil twin. Ethan gave him a small smile in return, one Danny mimicked over his shoulder. It hadn’t escaped Danny’s notice that the twins and everyone else were on extremely shaky ground, but it obviously pleased him that they were being brought into the fold, bit by bit.

“Bribery is illegal,” Boyd drawled, pointed and skeptical. “I think I should tell the Minister that an idiot has taken control of Hogwarts and named himself Headmaster.” He smiled then, small and downright evil, and added, “I think we should get Stiles a pink hat with a kitten bow on it.”

Stiles sputtered. “Are you implying that I am Umbridge?!”

“If the heeled pink boot fits, Stilinski…”

“Boyd will be sent to the Forbidden Forest for execution!”

Erica laughed, loud like a shotgun blast, and seized a pillow from under Scott with too much gusto for one in the morning.

“Down with the Headmaster,” she shrieked gleefully, lunging at the couch. Lydia kicked him off without a pause, not willing to be caught in the crosshairs for him. “ _Down with the Headmaster_!”

The resulting pillow fight broke another lamp. Stiles’ only explanation was not something the Sheriff was happy about, but it was the only one he had. Honestly!

“But _Dad_ ,” he argued as the Sheriff stared down at the trashcan, where the lamp had been hidden under their Chinese cartons until his father had tried to take out the trash. “The dark wizards tried an uprising! The battle was tough, but the important part was that I shut them down. The wizarding world is safe once again! I should be _rewarded_ , not punished!”

“You know, I think I preferred your lies about the murders, son. At least those didn’t include _wizards_. Go get dressed, you’re going lamp shopping and that’s final.”

“Five points from Gryffindor!”

The Sheriff snorted and grinned, shooting his son a look from over his shoulder. “Damn straight I’m Gryffindor,” he said. Stiles tried to groan in annoyance and found he was grinning too much to make that work. He let it slide, just this once. He hadn’t felt this good in months and buying a lamp every couple of weeks was a fair enough price to pay, so long as the pack was willing to chip in and help. He pulled out his phone and texted Lydia to meet him at the store, grinning so widely his face hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say. I wrote this _so long ago_ it's actually really weird to edit and post again. But I hope you enjoyed!


	6. cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One snowy night just before Christmas, Derek comes home.

Technically it would go down in the books that Derek Hale came back to Beacon Hills on a Saturday, but Stiles was pretty sure that the technicalities of the moment were in the po-tae-toe/po-tah-toe zone and they didn’t actually keep a book on the coming and goings of the population of Beacon Hills. Besides it was, like, somewhere between two am and five am and everything that happened between those weird hours always hung on some technicality or another. Stiles had just gotten up to put in the last DVD when headlights pulled across his front windows, jarring him out of his lazy not-sleepy-yet-but-give-it-twenty-minutes limbo state and into complete alertness. He was the only one who could see it, mostly because of the blanket fort, a slumber party stable at that point, but also because Erica was trying to suffocate herself under a mound of pillows to escape watching the movie while Lydia watched on with a raised eyebrow. Everyone else was pretty much completely unconscious or seriously dozing. 

They had been hyped and shaky and awake all night for the first five slumber parties, but as the weeks passed they started to return to normal sleeping patterns. It was their tenth slumber party and Boyd was all but comatose in Stiles’ dad’s old squishy brown armchair, legs over one arm, shoulders pressed against the other and head propped mostly upright against the back, while the snuggling trio dozed in the quiet break between movies. Danny was on the floor, unmoving, but that wasn’t unusual; Danny always slept still and peaceful, like he’d been blessed from the gods. Lydia, Erica, and Stiles were the only three awake, though Scott woke up at the sound of the car, blinking at the blanket fort’s wall like an overgrown child. 

“Wha-,” Scott yawned. Isaac curled further against Scott’s stomach and Allison snored softly from where she was wedged in between their bodies. Stiles shrugged at his best friend, just as confused as the sleepy alpha. Lydia frowned at the side of the fort, like she could mathematically equate the options of who the fuck was in his yard down to one. 

“Your father’s shift doesn’t end for another few hours,” she announced, looking faintly annoyed. Stiles made a face at her, because if there was anyone who knew his father’s schedule it was _him_ , thank you _Lydia_. She ignored him, because childish faces were beneath her radar. 

“Ethan would have texted me if he was coming over,” Danny said, from his face down position on the floor. Stiles jolted, because he hadn’t realized Danny was still awake. But the goalie was obviously trying to pretend this wasn’t how he was spending his Friday night, though Stiles wondered why he still bothered. He had been doing this for over a month and despite his protests he showed up at seven o’ clock, on the dot, with the wonder twins in tow each and every Friday. Stiles wondered if it was the choice of movies for that night. There was a fifty-fifty chance about that, because on one hand half of their movies were the shit and on the other half the movies were sorta slow dragging and old.

“That doesn’t leave very many options,” Stiles said, frowning. There was pretty much Peter and, well, Peter left after that. Which, just in case anyone was wondering, was exactly where Stiles drew the line in the sand. He was not having creepy undead uncle Peter at his super awesome movie marathon pack slumber parties. Erica made a face at him from where she was curled up against the foot of Boyd’s armchair, her nose crinkling. She was wearing one of their shirts, though whose Stiles really couldn’t tell anymore, and a pair of Batman boxers that Stiles were pretty sure were his as pajamas. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and Stiles found he liked her better like that, all mused and wrinkled, in a baggy shirt and flimsy shorts. It definitely looked more comfortable than her usual tight ass showy clothes, that was for sure.

“Their heartbeat is familiar,” Erica said, sounding annoyed. Stiles shot her a lopsided grin at the childish way she spat the words before the actual words themselves hit him, dropping it down into a frown. That pretty much meant whoever outside had probably tried to kill them before. Yippee. “But I can’t place it,” she continued, trailing off as she cocked her head to one side.

“So, not Peter,” he clarified, cocking his head to the side.

“Not Peter,” Erica promised. Lydia frowned at her, biting her lower lip faintly as her face scrunched up in thought. Stiles studied her face and then, when the headlights outside cut out, abruptly decided that he didn’t care who was out there. 

“Fuck it,” he said aloud. He picked his way across the room as the previews for the movie started, stepping in the space between Isaac’s hip and Allison’s stomach with utmost care. Scott sort of lifted his head when he passed, his eyes mostly open and very obviously worried. He was making _need backup?_ eyebrows at Stiles and Stiles shook his head, giving a _nah, I’ve got this_ shrug back. Scott didn’t look completely convinced, though, and made moves to sit up until Lydia’s hand landed on his shoulder. She was hunched over, the top of her head brushing the top of their fort, and her hair fell down in perfect curls despite the pillow fight reenactment from an earlier movie’s battle and the wrestle for the last cupcake. Stiles made a face at her in confusion, because there were some aspects of Lydia he would never understand. 

“Head down, Scott,” Lydia snapped, not unkindly. Scott automatically dropped his head, making Stiles laugh a little bit under his breath. Lydia would have made a gorgeous alpha, he thought fondly as she daintily stepped over Scott, bouncing in and out of the trio’s tangled mess of limbs with practiced ease. Once Lydia was at Stiles’ side, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed as she made for the front door, Scott slumped back into his doze, satisfied that Stiles had capable backup. Stiles snorted again and followed the tiny teenager to the front door, where she was slipping into a pair of old hiking boots that Stiles’ recognized from his middle school days.

“You people have got to stop stealing my clothes,” he said, no heat in his tone as he followed her example and slipped on a pair of shoes. He didn’t have on socks, but he didn’t really care. He pulled his metal bat out of the closet, figuring they were better safe than sorry, and Lydia delicately pulled a small spray can from her purse where it was hanging in the hall. The mixture a sort of supernatural pepper spray, courtesy of Deaton, and Stiles had a can himself, up in his room, tucked innocently in the corner of his desk. 

“Pick your battles, Stiles,” Lydia responded primly, seconds before she pulled one of his plaid shirts over her shoulders, followed quickly by an old sheriff’s department windbreak of his dad’s. How she managed to pull his clothing out of thin air when he could hardly find a pair of pants and a shirt to wear in the morning for school was another of those things he’d never understand about Lydia Martin. 

His freshman fantasies about Lydia had been correct, though; she looked good in his clothes. All warm and rumbled and homey-like. Stiles wondered if that was the pack-feeling Deaton was always going on to Scott about, but was dragged out of his thoughts when Lydia made to reach for the front door. Stiles rolled his eyes to the ceiling and moved past Lydia, gently bumping her out of the way to open the door. Lydia might have been absolutely capable and terrifying beyond all measure (and probably going to do more damage with her special pepper spray than he would with his bat) but he was never, ever going to put her in between the danger and himself. That wasn’t how his father raised him or how his mother had dreamed he’d be. He was brave enough to face whatever wanted to come knocking at his door at oh god o’ clock without hiding behind a _gir_ l.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” Erica warned him from the other room. He imagined she looked smug at using her werewolf super senses to pretty much read his mind from one room over. His friends were freaky individuals and if any of them actually got mind reading powers he was officially logging out. He wondered what had given it away, his scent or his heartbeat? Or was it a third spidey-sense, the kind all women had to feel when the men around them were being douchebags?

“Because,” the blond continued, voice mild and completely flat, “it feels sexist and I would like to remind you that I can break every bone in your body in less time than it would take you to recite them.”

“Duly noted,” he promised. Lydia snorted behind his shoulder and he shot her a smile before opening the door and trying to step outside. He huffed in shock at the cold and barely made it a foot before he stood frozen in the doorway, shivers tracing down his spine. “Fuck,” he breathed, a white cloud escaping between his lips, “it is cold as shit out here.”

“It’s almost Christmas,” the person standing awkwardly at the end of his front porch said. Stiles flinched and made an abortive jumping motion in surprised, then watched as they moved their hands, shoving them in their pockets and shifting on the balls of their feet. The motion was familiar, but the voice was even more so. “Plus it’s snowing, so of course it’s cold. Idiot.”

All the muscles that had tensed when the lights had hit the window relaxed, all at once. The end of the bat hit the wood flooring of his old porch, the quiet thud falling flat in the early-late-early hour of the night. Pressed against his back, probably on tiptoe to see over his shoulder, Lydia sighed, her breath warm and wet against his neck and ear. Stiles would bet money on her rolling her eyes at the looming figure in the darkness. 

Something landed softly on Stiles’ shoulder and stayed there. A second later a flashlight came on and the beam hit Derek in the face, making him flinch. Stiles glanced back, surprised, and got the satisfaction of being completely right; Lydia rolled her gorgeous eyes at the dramatic nature of the former alpha, flashlight propped on his shoulder for stability. 

“Must you be dramatic and creepy at every turn, Derek?” Lydia asked. It was obviously rhetorical, but Derek’s mouth opened a little bit like he was going to answer. Lydia moved the flashlight’s beam to hit his eyes again and he shut his mouth with a click, ducking the beam. “It gets old, you know.”

“Be nice,” Stiles said, feeling the need to defend the guy. He liked Derek, okay, and he had missed the creeper when he had been gone. He was even willing to admit that, out loud, if necessary. But only if it was absolutely necessary, because he had his pride, alright. “Besides,” he argued, “dramatic and creepy looks better on him than Peter.”

Lydia huffed in his ear, sighing like he was a great disappointment to her before disappearing back into the house, taking the flashlight and Stiles’ ability to see Derek’s face with her. She didn’t even flourish her hair at the creeping, snow dusted werewolf. Lydia must have missed Derek too, then. Stiles turned after her just a bit, listening to the way her voice fell to the edges of his hearing range as she talked to Erica, most likely announcing the return of their wayward sourwolf and griping about the stupidity of boys. Derek shifted awkwardly on the edge of his vision and Stiles squinted at him, feeling like they were teetering on the edge of something important. It was a lot like gripping the edge of that metal tub again, like sitting sprawled in chemistry and looking at the tension in Erica’s shoulders, like being eight years old and staring across the playground at the dark skinned floppy haired kid with the scraped knee and the broken dinosaur toy. 

When he thought about it, there was only one option for him to choose. So he shifted his weight, rolled his shoulders, and gave Derek his best smile, crooked and lopsided and more than a little bit awkward.

“Don’t be such a sourwolf, Derek” he said, feeling his chest go tight and his throat go dry as he did.

There was a sound from the dark, at the edge of the stairs leading up to his porch, like Derek was chuckling. Six months ago Stiles probably would have made a big production out of that, tried to wind Derek up until he was rearing for a fight, but he was tired and Derek probably stank of travel, all air conditioning and dusty sun and stale sweat, and he didn’t want to fight with Derek right now. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, feeling himself relax further at the thought.

“What are you guys doing? Is everything okay?”

“What?” Stiles asked. He glanced around, more than a little confused, and the realized what Derek was talking about. He rubbed a hand through his hair, shrugging. “You talking about the pile of heartbeats in the living room? Because, I swear, they’re fine. Sleepy, but all in one piece and unharmed, except for the wounded pride from the pillow fight. It’s Movie Marathon Slumber Party Night.”

Stiles didn’t have super werewolf eyes, but even he could see the quirk of Derek’s lip, could tell from the drawl of his voice that he was amused. “Movie Marathon Slumber Party Night? What are you, twelve?”

Stiles threw back his head and laughed, the sound curling into the corners of his darkened yard. “You’re a lot more giving than my dad,” he said, taking a few steps away from his open front door and down the steps of his porch. Derek got a little clearer, a little more defined. It wasn’t quite the full moon, but it wasn’t a new moon either. The snow made everything fuzzy, though, so he was within three feet of Derek’s broad, tense shoulders before he could clearly see Derek’s features. Derek tilted his head at him and Stiles felt his mouth curl in response. 

“Dad said we were acting like five year olds,” Stiles added, muttering it under his breath like it was a secret.

“How is he?” Derek asked, shifting awkwardly. Stiles smiled at him, pleased that he had asked, and ducked his head down a little as he answered. 

“He still resents the salads, but he’s pleased with the Real Bacon On Saturday rule he managed to pass in our corrupted court. He’s pretty much adopted the leather trio, though Lydia and Allison are, admittedly, his favorites. I think he likes the girls more than he likes me.”

Derek snorted a little bit and his eyes gleamed in the dark. Stiles watched as the man’s eyes darted behind him and he imagined Derek’s shoulders were tight with curiosity and not, like, cold or discomfort. Stiles bit his lip and stuffed his freezing fingers into his pockets, only to find he was wearing pocket-less sleep pants. He scowled down at his pants, remembering that somehow he had been bullied into wearing one of the girl’s pajama pants. In the name of equality or something. He couldn’t quite remember, but he wasn’t wearing his own pants and they didn’t have _pockets_.

“Why don’t girl’s pants have pockets,” he wondered aloud. He didn’t expect Derek to answer, but then the man took a step forward, shrugged his shoulders and cracked his neck. Stiles looked up at him, only to find he was actually looking down on him, Stiles eyes being level with Derek’s hairline from his perch on the step. _Huh_ , he thought. Derek cleared his throat.

“Laura used to say it was so that they could scam more women into buying purses,” he offered, quiet and careful. 

“That makes sense,” Stiles said, just as quiet, just as careful. Derek’s dead family would probably always be a sore tentative topic with him, just like Stiles’ mother would be to him. Stiles glanced back at the house, light creeping out of the open front door as he considered how to continue. He could just see Lydia standing at the end of the front hallway, leaning against the doorway to the living room. Her red hair gleamed in the light from the kitchen. It looked warm in his house. He turned back to Derek.

“Do you think I would make a good Han Solo?”

Derek’s face wrinkled in confusion. From back in the house Stiles faintly heard Erica shout something, something that was probably _give it up, Batman_ , but he wasn’t sure. He grinned at Derek’s confusion, shrugging his shoulders at him when he made a noise like a rumbling growl at him.

“Stiles,” Derek growled, which was the equivalent of a pouty whine on anyone else. 

“We do this thing every week,” Stiles explained, running his frozen hands through his hair. There was snow in it, though it was falling from the sky at too slow a rate for Stiles to really track. He made a face at it and continued, trying not to feel ridiculously self conscious about their little game. He liked their game, he told himself. It didn’t matter what Derek thought of it.

“We trying to, uh… What’s the word I’m looking for here? Cast?”

Derek’s head tipped to the side and he said, “Erica says sort.”

“Sort’ll work,” Stiles agreed, undisturbed by Erica’s eavesdropping. He’d gotten used to it with so many wolves around. “We pretty much sort each other into the different character’s roles of whichever movies we’re watching. We started with Avengers and then we watched Disney movies. We’ve watched Harry Potter and, uh, Indiana Jones and, like, six other things I can’t think of right now because it’s cold as shit.”

“Yeah? Who were you in all of those?”

“Spider-man, for Avengers, though he isn’t in the movie, he’s in the comic universe. For Disney I was Mushu-“

Derek laughed suddenly, before Stiles was even finished talking, his teeth glinting in the dim light from the house behind him. “Erica says you were Belle,” he said, leaning up into Stiles’ space and grinning at him. Stiles’ heart seized up a little bit and he tried to scowl, shooting an overdramatic glare back at the house.

“For the last damn time, I am not Belle,” he told the house behind him. In front of him Derek laughed again, a warm sound that made Stiles’ toes curl in his boots. Or at least they tried to, but his toes were too numb to curl. Everything about him was going numb. They probably needed to move this conversation inside.

“Other than that I was named Headmaster, deemed to be Indiana’s museum buddy, the one that always runs off in the wrong direction and shit; I can’t remember his name-“

“Marcus Brody,” Derek supplied, quietly. Stiles grinned at him, wider than he had in months. He nodded.

“Yeah, Marcus. But right now I’m trying to argue to be Han Solo instead of Isaac.”

“Ah,” Derek said, humming in the back of his throat. He was grinning a little bit too, or maybe that was a shadow. Stiles didn’t think it was a shadow, though. “Who is Isaac trying to argue you are,” Derek asked, playing along.

“R2D2, which would be cool, except, you know, _Han Solo_.” He made a broad gesture to show how Derek knew Han Solo and Derek nodded, short and serious.

“Wanna know who you are,” Stiles prompted, bouncing on his toes. Derek’s eyebrows shot up and he looked over Stiles’ shoulder at the house again. Stiles thought that if Derek was anyone else he might have bitten his lip. Stiles steamrolled on, figuring the less time he gave the former alpha to back out the easier it would be on everyone. 

“If you wanna know you’ll have to come in and watch Episode Three with us.”

Derek glanced down and then back up, eyes focusing somewhere between Stiles’ eyes and the space over his shoulder. His little shadow grin was gone and Stiles found he missed it. “The new one?” he asked. He was already taking a step forward and Stiles bounced up the steps and back toward the house, matching Derek move for move.

“Yeah, it’s the last one of the night. We started with the original ones and then the new ones, because we figured it wouldn’t be such a big loss if Scott wasn’t awake to see them. Can you believe he hadn’t seen Star Wars before this? Dude, even Lydia had seen it before now!”

They reached the top of the porch and Stiles’ back bumped into the doorframe, nearly clocking the side of his face on his own house. Derek, once he stepped further into the light from the hallway, was just as scruffy and gruff looking as he had been upon hightailing it out of town, though some of the pain around his eyes had leeched away. Time did a lot for guilt and pain, in the right place, given the right amount of room to work. Stiles knew that from experience. Leaving had been a good move on Derek’s part, Stiles acknowledged reluctantly. He just wondered why Derek had come back.

_I missed you_ , Stiles thought. He almost said it too, but then Derek took a step around him, into his house, muttering, “I like Natalie Portman,” under his breath and Stiles let it go.

“Sure you do, Chewy,” he said instead, bouncing into the house. Lydia glanced at him, something in her eyes that he couldn’t place, but he ignored her. Derek gaped at him for a second as he darted around him, shedding the jacket he had pulled on and dropping the bat back against the closet door with a loud clunk. Stiles saw the exact second Derek spotted the poster with the glitter glue rules on it, the man’s shoulders fall slack as he chuckled under his breath. Stiles grinned at him, feeling his face start to ache with the joy. 

“Stiles,” Erica shouted, dragging him away from his Derek induced grinning, “close the goddamn door and stop letting all the heat out. I’m not above stealing more of your clothes to keep myself warm over here.”

Derek stiffened at the sound of Erica’s voice and Stiles flashed back, as he did sometimes in his nightmares, to Derek crouched over Erica’s barely alive body, pale and stricken and scared. Stiles reached out, curling his hand around Derek’s bicep and giving him a little squeeze as he kicked off his shoes and blindly shut the door. Hearing her from afar must have been one thing, but being in the same house as her, hearing her loud and clear and close was probably different. Her scent was probably a factor to his stiffness too.

“Jeez, Catwoman,” he called back, not caring if he woke Boyd. “Maybe we wouldn’t have this problem if someone was a little more economical with their fort building and saved a few blankets for other uses, hmmm?” He turned around to lock the door and whirled back around, only to find Derek in Lydia’s place in the doorway between the hallways and the living room, kitchen glimpsed over his shoulder. Derek was looking between the living room and Stiles, a little bit baffled, a little bit amused. 

“I cannot believe you built a blanket fort,” he said, eyebrows rising judgmentally. Stiles bounced up, knocking his shoulder into Derek’s. They really were the same height, Stiles noticed, their shoulders touching as they took up more room than there was in the doorway. It was kind of squished and kind of warm and kind of nice. 

“Shut up, sourwolf,” he teased, shoving past Derek. The shove was even more gentle than the one he had given Lydia earlier, to get to the door. He decided not to dwell on that and instead made his way to the couch. He turned to talk over his shoulder, however, because he could never leave well enough alone. “If you make fun of our awesome fort I’m taking ten points from Hufflepuff.”

“ _Hufflepuff_?”

Derek’s shocked and slightly appalled face was worth the two and a half hours it took to get the pack to agree to that decision. It really, really was. Stiles crawled through their blanket fort (Erica really needed to make them taller) and collapsed on the couch with glee, his body twisting so he could fix his eyes on Derek’s face to watch every flicker of conflicting emotion dart across his face.

“Hufflepuff is a noble house,” Danny imputed, still face down. He sounded a little more sleepy than he had before, which, added to the way his limbs were starting to spread like a jellyfish’s tentacle-things, probably meant he had about ten minutes before he was out cold. Stiles marveled at Danny’s ability to take things in stride.

“Talk shit get hit, Miguel,” Danny continued, smirking a little at the corner of his mouth as he turned to curl on his side.

Stiles fell off the couch, knocking his legs into Erica’s as he roared with laughter. Boyd didn’t even flinch. Stiles couldn’t breathe for a few minutes as Derek stared at the living room, mouth a little bit open, cheeks a little bit more pink than they had been before, the color barely showing under his stubble. Lydia rolled her eyes to the ceiling and Erica made curious noises in the back of her throat, kicking Stiles’ leg when he didn’t answer her _who the fuck is Miguel_ questions.

“Fifty points to Hufflepuff, Danny boy,” Stiles promised, making his wobbly, grinning way back onto the couch next to Lydia. Erica groaned loudly from the floor, twisting around to glare at him venomously.

“For the _last time_ , Stiles Stilinski, you are not and will never be Dumbledore. Dumbledore doesn’t even sort people into the houses, the Sorting Hat does!”

Derek blinked at the living room as a whole. “I regret coming home,” he informed them, which was total bullshit. Stiles opened his mouth to call him on it even has his heart constricted at the word _home_ , but Lydia knocked him in the ribs, stopping him. Lydia gave Derek a quiet, chilling look, one that had their big bad former alpha fidgeting slightly like a child.

“Shut up and sit down, Hale,” she said, eventually. “You’re blocking my view of the television.”

Derek did as she bid, kicking off his shoes and shedding his jacket (proving he wasn’t raised in a barn, Stiles thought, internally snickering) before he carefully stepped his way through the room and to the portion of the couch Lydia indicated with a small flick of her fingers. Erica gave the man a tight small smile after Stiles not-so-discreetly kicked her and Lydia pressed play, just as Derek sat on the couch, his jean clad thigh pressed slightly against Stiles’. Lydia threw her legs over both their laps like this was business as usual, which made Erica snort and grin at her, tension easing from her shoulders.

“Welcome back, Derek,” Scott slurred from the cocoon of tangled limbs. Derek shot him a surprised look before ducking his head as the famous Star Wars intro started, leaving Stiles to only catch the barest of glimpses of the smile that spread across Derek’s lips. 

The Sheriff didn’t really have much to say about coming home hours later and finding Derek Hale wedged onto the couch in Lydia’s usual place, his son sprawled mostly against him. If he was surprised that Lydia Martin, unofficial boss of everyone, had moved to the armchair while Boyd was tangled on the floor with Erica he definitely didn’t say anything about it. It wasn’t that he _wasn’t_ surprised, Stiles overheard him tell Melissa over the phone days later; it was just that it didn’t seem right, kicking out that boy after all that had happened to him. (Those were his father’s exact words, Stiles reflected with a snicker. He had called Derek _boy_ , all fond and soft, like the man wasn’t six foot and all muscle. It was great. Perfect even.) But Derek had called the Sheriff _sir_ in a stiff and awkward way all morning until his dad took pity on him and told him to cut the crap and loosen up. 

It had been the best moment of Stiles’ life, because a second later the Sheriff had shoved a plate full of flower shaped pancakes into Derek’s hands. Derek had hunched over them like he thought they might disappear, his ears glowing pink, his shoulders curling up to his ears over as he stuttered _sir_ again, reflexively. Stiles snickered until Allison kicked him in the shin, shushing him sleepily.

“Be nice,” she said as she passed him. 

“I’m always nice,” he replied, which made Derek snort and grin at him, abrupt and quiet like he couldn’t help it. Stiles grinned back at him, leaning over to grab the edge of Derek’s shirt and haul him closer. The rest of the pack, minus the wonder twins, filled up the kitchen and the dining room with noise, his dad presiding over them all with a little half smile he and Melissa had shared a lot during Scott and Stiles’ childhood. It was the half smile of a pleased parent and Stiles was so glad to have that expression back on his dad’s face.

“I missed you,” he whispered to Derek, bumping their shoulders together as he snatched a piece of bacon off of the former alpha’s plate. Derek shot him a look and his grin got a little bigger, a little looser, and his shoulders relaxed even more fractionally. 

“I think you’d make a good Han Solo,” Derek replied, bumping his shoulder back into Stiles’. Isaac groaned from his position starfished on the dining table, any actual words he was trying to use getting tangled between the hardwood surface and his face. Erica made a face at both of them over the rim of her coffee mug (the one Stiles had painted for her at their paint-a-pot outing three weeks before, because painting premade pottery was surprisingly relaxing) and muttered something about playing favorites. 

“Did you sort me into every movie,” Derek asked, three days after he returned. He was perched on Stiles’ windowsill, seeming to appear out of nothing at all, but Stiles didn’t jump or scream, because Derek didn’t scare him. The late afternoon sunlight was a halo around his shoulders, making the way they were hunched to his ears even more obvious.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered, easily. He was supposed to be writing a lab report for chemistry, but he had been playing League of Legends instead. His headset was curled around his neck, his buddies still shouting and grumbling through the speakers. He muted his mic and glanced at his screen, but he was still dead, would be for another ten seconds.

Derek didn’t move or say anything. Stiles snorted and cracked his neck, reaching for his mouse when the countdown to his respawn hit three. “You can come in, you know,” Stiles said, idly reengaging in the game. “I’ll even tell you who you were, in most of them. We didn’t sort you in all of them, because sometimes there just wasn’t a fit, but you were in most.”

Derek slid off the windowsill and quietly made his way across the room. He pulled up the spare chair Isaac had dragged up earlier that month and sat on it, slow and unsure. Stiles swore quietly under his breath when some bastard playing Caitlin shot his ass down. 

“Hufflepuff,” Derek said, like a prompt. Stiles hummed and didn’t bother to hide his grin.

“You care about other people, don’t lie. It’s your best feature, especially since you got rid of your shiny car.”

Derek huffed something that might have been a laugh and ducked his head down. He was sitting backward on the old kitchen chair and Stiles watched out of the corner of his eye as Derek folded his arms across the back of the chair and dropped his chin to rest on his arms. “Avengers,” he said, instead of arguing. Stiles was a little disappointed; he had put a lot of time into sorting his friends into the different houses and he had wanted the chance to show off his reasoning. 

“Wolverine,” he responded, clicking at his mouse furiously. 

“Wolverine,” Derek mimicked. Stiles wished he could look away from the screen long enough to parse apart Derek’s expression, but then Derek shrugged and moved on. “Disney?”

“Beast,” Stiles said. He felt the back of his neck go warm, remembering that particular argument. He had been the one to suggest Derek as Beast, which had been a great idea, until Boyd remarked that Stiles reminded him of Belle. That night had spiraled out of his control after that.

“That’s the best you could come up with?”

“There were arguments to make you Sebastian instead,” Stiles informed him primly. 

“Who was Ariel?”

“Erica.”

“In that particular movie I think you’d be Scuttle,” Derek informed him, just as primly. Stiles sputtered, finger slipping on his keyboard, and promptly died.

“Asshole,” Stiles replied, a little fondly. “That makes Isaac Flounder.”

“And Boyd Prince Eric?”

“But what about that old geezer that follows Eric around?”

Stile turned to Derek, slumping down onto his elbows in thought. “Huh. I don’t know. But Scott is definitely Eric’s dog.” Derek snorted in reply, giving Stiles a crooked little smile in response. 

“You’re character’s respawned,” Derek informed him. Stiles yelped and whirled back around, wildly grabbing at the mouse. The countdown to respawn was still on his screen. 

“You _asshole_ ,” Stiles raged. “Just for that, I’m not gonna tell you who you were in the Mummy.”

“The cult guy, right? The one with the cheek tattoos who is trying to keep them out of the pyramid.”

Stiles sputtered, twisting a little so he could see the screen and Derek at the same time. Derek was grinning at him blatantly now, hair flopped over his forehead, nose pressed against one wrist. “No,” Stiles lied.

Derek laughed a little bit more, picking up his chin so he could shift forward. “Bet you were the librarian chick,” he said, “and that Scott was the main guy, the one played by Brendan Fraser.”

“I was the brother, Jonathan,” Stiles informed him, sticking his tongue out at him. “Lydia was Evelyn.” Derek hummed, a sort of _if you say so_ noise, before falling into a comfortable silence. The sun slipped further down the sky and Stile’s character died several times before Derek spoke again. 

“Have you guys watched the Riddick movies yet?” 

Stiles paused. “No, we haven’t. Holy shit. Why didn’t I think of that? I cannot believe I didn’t think of inflicting Vin Diesel on everyone earlier. I mean, who the hell would pass up the opportunity to watch Vin Diesel do shit, because _hot damn_ , that man is _fine_.” 

There was a short awkward pause where Stiles realized he may or may not have just admitted he liked guys. “Pretend that never happened,” Stiles told Derek, feeling the back of his neck heat up again. Derek gave him a small shit eating grin and opened his mouth. “No,” Stiles hissed, feeling his entire face go red. 

“I was going to ask what you were playing,” Derek said, which was probably the worst lie in the world. But Stiles told him anyway, because it was easier than having to have the _you’re a curious teenager and that’s okay_ speech with Derek. He had already had, like, three with Scott’s mom and a couple more scarring conversations with Erica and Isaac. He absolutely and utterly did not need one of those from Derek. He would die. 

That weekend the pack decided that for once Derek got to be the protagonist. Stiles pretended that he didn’t find the thought of Derek with Riddick’s strange eyes a compelling image. Isaac and Lydia had no such qualms, which lead to the first time any of them saw Derek blush like a lit up Christmas light. Stiles took a picture. They almost broke another lamp. Their record of unbroken lamps couldn’t go on forever, though.

“And here I thought Derek would be above lamp breaking,” his father said, two weeks after their Riddick marathon, when Stiles had to go lamp shopping once again. Derek was standing stiffly at his side, embarrassed and guilty like a little kid. Stiles resisted the urge to pinch his cheeks or take another picture. The Sheriff cleared his throat, pointedly glancing at the place where the lamp had been. 

“We were watching Xena, dad,” Stiles said, exasperated. “I cannot believe you expected the house to come out unscathed from that.”

“Xena,” his dad repeated, skeptical and more amused than he probably would have been had there not been werewolves in his life. “Oh? And who were you this time, son? Since Derek’s obviously Xena.”

Derek turned pink and then grinned, mean and vicious. Stiles tried to hush him, smothering his hand over Derek’s mouth, but Derek just licked him. Stiles pulled back with a small shriek, his face heating because someone _licking his hand_ like they were in elementary school _should not be hot_. While Stiles was distracted Derek took the opportunity and said, “He was Joxer, sir,” before Stiles could interrupt. The Sheriff laughed so hard he had to sit down. 

Stiles bought the most hideous lamp he could find. Isaac broke it the weekend before St. Patrick’s day and everyone cheered, even Cora, who had come to visit Derek for his birthday only to find that he was too busy hanging out in a pillow fort arguing over the pros and cons to being Xander and didn’t actually want to go out to eat with her.

“I drove, like, over twelve hours to be here,” she said. She was standing in front of the television, staring in disbelief at the image before her. Stiles wondered what was the weirdest part of the picture, to her: the fact that her brother was wearing a pair of pajama pants with cutesy little moons on them and cuddling on the couch with Lydia Martin and himself or the fact that the wonder twins were there, sprawled across the floor like tamed, lazy lions. It was probably a mixture of everything, Winnie the Pooh blanket covering their heads included, he figured. 

“Huh,” Danny said, from his spot propped against Derek’s legs. Ethan was sprawled with his head in Danny’s lap, hording a bag of chips all to himself like the annoying bastard he was. Danny shot a look at Stiles, eyebrows raised. “You were right, Stilinski.”

“Of course I was,” Stiles said, without missing a beat. “But what was I right about?”

“Cora,” Danny said. 

“Cora,” the girl in question repeated, looking murderous.

“Cora,” Stiles echoed. He didn’t really remember having a conversation about Cora with Danny. But most of his memory for conversations was saved for every little thing Derek said these days, so it wasn’t that surprising. 

“He said you were Tinkerbell,” Danny elaborated, shrugging. “I can see it.”

It took Cora less than ten seconds to decide that she didn’t want to know. They explained anyway. 

“You’re all morons,” she declared in the late-early-late hours of the night, after she had stolen a pillow from Isaac and claimed one of the floor spots as her own. Stiles had been dozing against Derek’s shoulder, his nose jammed in the crook of the man’s neck while his legs tangled with Lydia’s. It was only too easy to fall asleep like this, he thought, what with Derek’s heartbeat a lulling thump in his ear, but he grunted his protest to Cora anyway.

“Don’t be rude, Anya,” he muttered. Cora threw a pillow at him. Derek raised his arm and knocked it out of the air, so it fell on Isaac and Scott’s sleeping forms instead. “Fifteen points from Slytherin for Headmaster abuse,” Stiles grumbled, mostly into the fabric of the Wolverine shirt Boyd had gotten Derek for Christmas. Derek snorted into his hair and kicked at Cora’s legs when she hefted another pillow to throw.

Cora subsided with a grumble. Derek curled down against Stiles’ body, arm pressing against Stiles’ stomach to keep their bodies together. Lydia pressed her cold toes against his ankle and mumbled in her sleep, while Isaac and Scott slept on, pillow still mostly on top of them, Allison tucked underneath them both. Aiden was sleeping next to Ethan, who was curled around Danny like the goalie was his favorite childhood stuffed animal. Erica and Boyd were practically one person in the armchair. Stiles stared at them all sleepily while the television showed Giles puttered around his house, Spike sitting on the man’s couch, and felt content. Despite the deaths and the fear and the nightmares he still had that kept him awake more nights than not, he was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the first ever chaptered fic I finished and felt really good about. I'm still proud of this, but there were a lot of tweaks I made between ff.net's version and this version. 
> 
> I hope someone gets a kick out of this, because I sure did writing it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> This is another piece from my ff.net account. I've cleaned it up and will be posting the rest of the chapters here over the course of the weekend as I clean them up. Hope you enjoyed!


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